Scars--A Harry Potter Fanfiction
by vejohnson93
Summary: This fanfiction is the prologue to a Harry Potter fanfiction. The story takes place at the beginning of The Deathly Hallows in the Harry Potter universe and features my original character, Samuel McDermott, and how he has been affected by the start of the Second Wizarding War.


Estimated time: Beginning of _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_

Location: Somewhere in Essex

As the sun was setting, he sat atop a shingled roof, watching the sunset. He noted out the declining sun made the trees look like they were set alight. From the rooftop, he could see for miles: the neighboring farms and villages, carefree children playing, muggles blissfully unaware of the impending storm.

Something in the wind was foreboding, though. It blew just a bit too rough, quieting the sound of the birdcalls. It felt like a curtain was about to fall.

He wore nothing but a pair of battered jeans, worn around the joints and ragged in the cuffs from age. The scar on his chest contrasted with them: it was new and pink and raw, shiny from the skin trying to stitch itself back together. He had struggled not to be ashamed of it, and his father had tried to help him. "Don't be abashed of what the Death Eaters did to you," his father insisted time and again. "This is cliché, but what doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

When the Death Eaters had attacked their home, they had taken so much. They murdered his brother and his mother, a successful journalist who refused to adhere to their demands. They had slashed his chest, maimed his father, and burnt their house down, leaving them for dead.

His face also contrasted with the old jeans he wore: his tan skin was not yet leathery, and his brown hair framed his adolescent face. In spite of the attack, his green eyes still held a glimmer of youth, and it was evident that he was barely legal in wizarding years.

There was a soft cry from the window of the attic that gave access to the roof. He turned to see his cat, Shadow, poking its head out the window. He called to the cat, and Shadow clambered up, situating itself on his lap. Together they watched the horizon.

It was his first day home in awhile. After the attack, he had felt unsafe, even in his new house. He'd gone and tried to distract himself by visiting his friends. However, his friends mostly lived in forest-y environments, and he found himself missing the sun toward the end of his vacation. When he'd returned to the new house, he hadn't even bothered to remove his luggage from the car: he'd mounted right to the attic and out the window to catch the sun before it'd descended.

As the light faded, he could hear his father deep within the bowels of the house. "Sam?" he called. "Samuel McDermott, are you home?"

Sam disentangled himself from Shadow. The cat meowed in indignation, but deigned Sam to move him. Sam swung through the window, leaving it open for the cat to follow in time, and set off to find his father.

His father was stationed in the living room. He appeared to have been napping on the couch. Alan McDermott smiled when Sam entered. "Want to help an old man to his wheelchair?" he asked. He seemed sad, which Sam didn't quite understand.

Sam got the wheelchair from the other end of the room and brought it over to the couch, wondering how his father got to the sofa if his wheelchair was all the way over there. "Where did your wand get to?" Sam queried as he aided Alan into the chair.

"Cats like to move it," his father grunted as he sat up with Sam's help. Watching his father, Sam also felt a twinge of sadness. Before the Death Eaters attacked, his father had been a great auror, but the sectumsempra spell cast by one of Voldemort's followers had severed Alan's spinal cord and made him a paraplegic. The once able-bodied man was now wheelchair-ridden, only able to get around with the help of another or magic. Sam couldn't help but pity him, though he knew that the last thing Alan wanted was pity.

Once Alan was finally settled in his chair, he spoke: "I think I know where the wand is." He pointed to a bookshelf in the other corner of the room, indicating the highest shelf.

Sam crossed the room to see that, there indeed, the wand lay. It was atop of a manila folder and a letter. He took them from the shelf along with the wand. Sam pondered: "Your wand is here, but what are these papers?"

He turned to his father, who was smiling knowingly. "What?" Sam inquired, realizing that there was something more than what his father was telling him.

"Oh, Sam," Alan whispered, tearing up. "Sam, Sam, Sam."

"What's going on, Dad?"

His father sighed. "That folder, there, contains a passport, a birth certificate, a social security card, and a one-way airline ticket to America for a Mr. Seth Harlow," he explicated. He was still smiling, but now tears were dripping down his cheeks.

"Who…Who is Seth Harlow?" Sam asked, his suspicion rising.

"He is—well, _was_ —the husband of my childhood friend. Her name is Elizabeth Harlow. She's a squib. She left England in her teens, and now lives in Massachusetts," Alan informed Sam.

"What's that got to do with you?" Sam demanded. He didn't know what was going on, but he didn't like it. He feared what his father would say next.

"Seth Harlow was a pilot. He died in a plane crash in the United Kingdom a few weeks ago. Elizabeth wrote me, distraught about it. And I told her, in exchange, my fears."

"What were you afraid of?" Sam asked, his voice softening. His father was the most courageous man he knew. Alan was the only member of his family to be sorted into Gryffindor, and rightly so. Sam himself was in Ravenclaw. Most of the McDermotts had been Hufflepuffs. To hear that Alan was afraid of something blew Sam's mind.

His father bit his lip and exhaled again. "Sammy, I know that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is coming after me. Not only did I put a number of his followers in Azkaban, but I've also worked with the Ministry since I graduated Hogwarts. He tried to kill me and failed: I know he'll be knocking at our door soon enough.

"That frightens me, Sammy. He killed my wife and my other son and he wounded you badly. I know I can't defend myself. I know I can't protect _you._ He won't let me go easily; he'll play with me until he has me begging for death. He might even try to kill you again, because I happen to be related to you. Putting you in danger… _that_ scares me."

Sam had tears welling up in his eyes, because he could feel the raw pain in his father's voice. Sam bit his lip and shook his head, "No, Dad. You don't have to be afraid of that. If they come looking for us, we'll fight them off…"

"No," Alan told him firmly. "I'm not giving them that opportunity: I won't be here for them to find. This is where the Harlows come in. Elizabeth is a widow: she has no children, or parents—only siblings and extended family. She has generously offered for me to come and live with her, under the guise that I'm Seth, not Alan McDermott. She promised that we could pass the injuries that I sustained from the Death Eaters' attack as injuries from an airline accident. It took minimal magic to alter her friends' and neighbors' memories so that they believe I'm Seth."

"That's ridiculous," Sam protested. "It's convoluted, overly complicated, and it will be incredibly difficult to pull off…"

"Exactly," Alan whispered. "That's why it's brilliant. If I am disguised as someone who everyone believes is an ordinary muggle in America, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named will have a hell of a time finding me."

Sam shook his head. He hated being presented with logical plans and being against it for emotional reasons. He _knew_ this was a good alternative for them. He _knew_ the Death Eaters would come for his father once they learned he'd survived. Sam could help him run and fight… but the Death Eaters would overwhelm them in time. They couldn't hide forever.

But Sam just couldn't bring himself to give Alan his blessing. If Alan left for America… Sam would be on his own, for the first time ever. Even though Sam was now of age, the idea of facing the impending war alone scared him.

"Sam, please," Alan implored him, "I don't want to end up in Saint Mungo's Insanity Ward like the Longbottoms. I don't want to be offed like Bertha Jorkins."

Sam's tears overwhelmed him. How could he argue with a plea like that? Sam knew that he had to stop being selfish and support Alan's choice.

Inhaling deeply, tears still streaming down his face, Sam nodded. Breaking his stiff demeanor, Sam placed the folder, letter, and the wand into Alan's lap. He then knelt down and encompassed his father—his hero, his whole world—in his arms, as though holding him would allow Sam to hang on to the comfort of childhood for just a bit longer. His father, touched, hugged him back.

Alan knew that this was worse for Sam than it was for him. After all, Alan wouldn't remember any of this after the spell: the war, the accident that led to his crippling, leaving Sam behind. And Alan hadn't even asked the worst of it from Sam yet.

After a moment passed, Sam let go of Alan, wiping his eyes of tears. He breathed heavily, not looking at his father

"Sammy," Alan told him. "I have another favor to ask of you."

Sam looked up at him, his eyes tinged red. Looking at his son, Alan's heart broke, knowing the agony that he was forcing Sam through.

Alan said, "I'd like you to apparate me to London's Heathrow airport. And after that… I need you to place a false memory charm on me so that I believe that I'm Seth Harlow. I need to forget my job, the accident… you. I need to forget Alan McDermott."

Sam sucked in his breath deeply, as though his chest had been cut again. Before Sam could protest, Alan explained, "I don't want there to be any chance that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named accessing my information. I'm concerned that my memories might put other families in danger. The Ministry of Magic can't afford chinks in their armor now: I know that I am one. And I don't trust anyone more than I trust you. So I'd like you to be the one to cast the charm."

Sam started tearing up again. He'd thought that he'd had his tears under control, but he was wrong. He felt as though someone had twisted the knife after stabbing him. "It's just… If I do this, if I make you believe you're… Seth Harlow, I'll never see you again. You won't know me… You won't contact me. You won't believe in magic, and you won't trust me to change you back," Sam told him, knowing it was true.

"Sam," Alan said. It was a word that expressed all of his emotions all at once. Alan started tearing up again, but he took a breath. He had to remain composed. He had made his decision; he had to do this. The only thing left was to convince Sam. He was almost there. "When this war is over, when Voldemort is defeated—"

"And what if he isn't?" Sam demanded. "What then?"

"He will. Harry Potter lives. And Dumbledore, he had a plan. It _will_ get better. But first, it has to get worse. When it's finally over… Come and find me. I want you to come and find me. You can lift a memory charm. You're so smart and talented; I know that you can do that without thinking twice.

"But Sammy, you can't bring me back from death."

Sam blinked furiously, nodding intently. Alan watched as the entirety of the situation came crashing over his son's face. Sam had been trying so hard to ignore the enormity of the situation, but it hit Sam like a slap. Sam knew what was at stake: he understood what and why Alan was asking. Sam knew what he had to do.

Shaking, Sam shifted his feet unsteadily. "Are you bringing anything with you to America?" Sam inquired, his voice cracking over the last word. Sam ran his hand over his face and through his hair, like he was wiping a slate clean.

"No," Alan told him. "I'm concerned personal possessions might trigger memories, and that can't happen. Elizabeth has everything I'll need. I'm leaving everything here to you. Do with it what you want: use it, leave it, sell it… that choice is yours."

Nodding, Sam extended his hand. Alan took it, and with closed eyes, they disparated with a soft **_pop!_**

The murmurs of a crowd and people walking flooded Sam's ears. It was a stark contrast to the animal noises of the new farm. Sam had apparated them to a quiet, relatively unpopulated part of the airport so that no muggle would see them appear, or see Sam do magic.

Alan looked around at the deserted hallway that Sam had chosen, nodding in approval. "Nicely done," he whispered.

"Thank you," Sam replied. It sounded like a business exchange. That was what it was starting to feel like, now that the tears had faded.

Alan stared at Sam, waiting for him to act. Sam nodded, breathing deeply. Sam lifted his own wand, when Alan said, "Wait."

Sam paused, looking at Alan expectantly. Alan handed Sam his wand; Sam looked at him quizzically. "I want it to be my own wand," Alan explained. "Don't ask why… it just feels right."

Sam nodded. "Right then. Okay." Sam sighed, trying to keep his emotions squashed down. They stared at each other, concurrently wanting to get this moment over with and not wanting that minute to end. There was a pregnant pause, and Sam realized there was nothing left to say. Sam lifted his father's wand. The wand shifted uneasily in his hand as he pointed it at Alan, and whispered, " _Obliviate."_

A green light extended out of Alan's wand and Sam's father, obscuring his face from Sam's view. Watching intently, Sam stashed Alan's wand in his pocket. He watched as his father forgot who both of them were, his memories replaced with something foreign.

After the green light had faded, Alan shook his head, looking around, confused. He made eye contact with Sam, and there was a sparkle of thought in his eyes.

Somewhere, deep down, Sam's heart fluttered, wondering if maybe the memory spell hadn't worked, and his father still remembered Sam.

"Hello, young man," Alan greeted him in an American accent, and Sam's heart sank. The spell had worked. Of course it had: there was no reason why it wouldn't have.

It was for the better that it had functioned properly. But that didn't mean that Sam had wanted it to work.

"I'm a tad discombobulated," Alan said, believing himself to be Seth Harlow. "I'm looking for security, so I can make my flight?"

Halfheartedly, Sam directed Alan—or was it Seth now? —to security so that he could catch his flight to the States. Alan smiled, thanked him, and started to roll away. As Sam watched him leave, he struggled to swallow his tears as his last living family member left him and these troubled times for America.

Alan did not look back.


End file.
